


In This Life (and the Next)

by Kalaiscope



Series: Various Leif Works [5]
Category: Road to Folkvangr, Tales from Cloverreach/The Grimalkin Oath
Genre: Domestic Violence, Gen, Highschool AU, M/M, Mentions of Eating Disorder, Mentions of self-harm, Multi, Suicide, Underage Drinking, also where i live 17 is not underage but i know it is in some places, but just in case, domestic abuse, idk if i would call it GRAPHIC depictions of violence, it's more like 'what is this?????', mentions of bullying, mentions of recreational drug use, probably a lot more, school shooting, so again just in case, the non-con is really vague too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:50:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalaiscope/pseuds/Kalaiscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I love you," he whispers, reverent. "From the first time I met you. Even before." He traces fingers across hot skin, admiring, drinking it in. Every touch is a new experience, but it feels like something burned into his body's memory. Like a decades-old map he is just remembering how to read. "You understand, don't you?" And his question is desperate, an anxious child searching for confirmation of his beliefs. "As if... This isn't the first time. Like I've known you in another life."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Life (and the Next)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zaabu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zaabu).



> the writing gets clunkier and sloppier as it progresses, partly because i realized i had hit 14,00 words and my brain went 'wow what' (the transition from 'Jon' to 'Bragi' is intentional though)
> 
> it kind of waffled on the edge of 'is this gonna be smut??' for a while, but ended up settling comfortably exactly on the line.
> 
> i don't even own any of these characters except Leif
> 
> EDIT: It is highly recommended that you listen to [this track mix](http://8tracks.com/kalaiscope/in-this-life-and-the-next) while you read the story.

"D'you ever feel..."

The words come from the small, bright-eyed child lying next to her on the roof. He seems unusually contemplative today. A little bit troubled, too, which is unusual for him, being such a naturally optimistic child. But he always ends up voicing his thoughts in the end, she she turns her head and waits for her brother to continue.

He shifts a bit on the roof tiles before he speaks again. "Ah, I dunno, kinda... Like you're not where you're s'posed to be? Like your life is weird, or you're missing something...?" She can almost hear the frown in his voice, the way his forehead is all wrinkled as he searches the starry sky for answers. "Just... Achy, somehow. In the heart. Like a bit'v your soul got misplaced and you're all tangled up trying to figure out what part of it's gone missing. Do you think I've got a broken soul, Allie?" His eyes meet hers in the darkness, glowing with suppressed anxiety. She's not sure how to respond.

"Well," she says slowly, "maybe it's a past life thing? You know, how mama's always saying you'll be reincarnated as a beetle if you're naughty. Maybe you've still got bits of memories from your old one left over, and you keep looking for things you don't have in this life but used to."

"Do you ever feel like that? Like you've forgotten something?" 

It makes her hesitate. Has she? Sure, sometimes she thinks it's weird that she doesn't go to boarding school or that her mom can keep a steady job as a jeweler and still make money off her paintings, or that their family lives half a state away and the only time they're all together is on holidays. And she's often felt, in private moments of worry, that someday her little brother is going to go off and have something terrible happen to him. Something so bad he'll have to grow up. But as though she's missing something...?

"Nah," is her reply. "I've got everything important. I've got a good life, with friends and a home and enough to eat." She turns over so she can flop her arms over her brother and tug him into a bear hug. "I've got my family. And I've got my lil bro to look after, which is the most important thing, you know."

He laughs as she gives him an affectionate noogie and plants a sloppy kiss on his nose. He laughs like sunshowers and bright oceans and church bells and his eyes shine with all the imagination a single child could posses and more. He fell into her life when she was only four years old and he turned their small, cramped house into something like warm and cozy like a home. She'll never tell him, but since he was born, their lives have only gotten better. He's their lucky charm, their sweetest child, and he is more precious than he could ever know. 

"I love you Allie," he chirps into her shoulder, curled there like a sleepy kitten, sticky kid fingers all over her skin, and she feels her heart swell.

"I love you too, Leif."

But sometimes she worries for him.

 

\- - -

"I had another dream." 

She looks up from flipping the eggs, watching as the boy with the sleepy blue-green eyes sits himself down at the kitchen table, head resting on the wood. "Another one?" she questions, raising one smooth gray eyebrow. "Dear me, I thought it was normal to dream every night. Was I mistaken? Should I see a doctor?"

She's teasing him, but she knows he's used to it after nearly eleven years of living with it. He shakes his head. "Not that kind, Nanna. The weird kind. The painful kind." It's not the first time he's talked of such dreams, visions in his head so clear they seem real until he wakes up and they slip away like tendrils of smoke, leaving only vague scents and impressions.

A plate with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and toast clinks onto the table in front of him, heaped so high it seems in danger of toppling. She sets a glass of milk next to it, and then returns to the other side of the round table with her own coffee and toast. "Now then," she says as she settles in, "aren't you going to tell me about it?"

Her grandson already has his mouth full of potatoes, and looks up with a slightly alarmed expression. A wave of her hand encourages him to swallow it down with a chug of milk and then wipe his mouth _with_ the napkin, thank you very much. 

"It was..." He looks uncomfortable, but that could easily just be him having trouble swallowing. "Well, have you ever had a dream where you go through all these adventures with someone, literally go through he-... heck, for them, and you love them so much, and you just want them to be happy, and you want to be with them, and you are happy, and... and then you wake up. And they were just a dream." He's dropped his gaze to his plate, but he doesn't seem to be looking at the food. "It feels like they died, but they never even existed in the first place."

The coffee has been set aside momentarily as she contemplates his words. She can't say she's ever had a dream like that, but she does know what it's like to mourn for the death of a loved one. It's nothing like what he's feeling, for sure, but that doesn't make his feelings any less real. She taps the table, once, twice, and then speaks. "You've heard of 'soulmates', haven't you? Of course you have. The idea that every person out there has another that they are destined for. Mostly it's used to mean a romantic connection, but I'm sure that's not always the case." Tap. Tap. "At any rate, I've always thought it a bit silly. How can someone you've only just met be perfect for you when they don't even know you?" She pauses to snort a bit, showing her contempt, and then goes on. "But there are other people who say that these soulmates are people you've loved in past lives. Or, more specifically, that every person you've loved in your past life was the same soul, your soulmate." 

There's another pause as she gauges his reaction. He looks like it's finally dawning upon him. "If there is such a thing as reincarnation - and now please don't take anything I say to heart, they're just the ravings of a mad old woman - I think... If it does exist... That the one you dreamed of would be that person. A repressed memory of your soulmate, or something like that. And if there is such a thing as a soulmate, then... Well, I suppose yours must be out there somewhere." 

He's sitting with his mouth open now, and she allows herself one fond smile before she leans over and taps it shut. "As I said, don't take me too seriously. It could just be a dream. No one really knows for sure about these things. Now, eat, and for heavens sake _chew_ while you're at it! I've left your lunch by the door, and I do hope you've got everything you'll need in your backpack already, because that little heart-to-heart cost us several minutes. The bus will be here in ten."

That sends him scurrying to wolf down his food as gracefully as possible, and for once, there's no commentary. She just waits to make sure he doesn't choke, collects all he needs, and shoos him out to where the bus is waiting. 

"Bye Nanna!" He calls over his shoulder as he runs. "I love you!"

"I love you, too! Be a good boy, Jon, for your Nanna!"

She's not sure he heard it all, but he smiles reassuringly at her and sprints up the steps into the vehicle. Watching it drive away, she wonders if she couldn't have said more. Her grandson is not going to have an easy life, she knows it in her bones, but at least he's a strong boy. He'll make it through. 

Covering a cough with her hand, she decides perhaps she'll go lay down for a while. She deserves a rest.

 

\- - -

The fourth summer after Nanna dies is when Jon finally meets him. 

It's not a very significant meeting in itself, and it wouldn't have been memorable at all if it had been anyone else. Hardly a memory worth holding onto.

He's sitting on the front steps, in this building so close to the city center that it doesn't even have a front lawn. Just stairs down to the sidewalk. He's not doing much. Mostly waiting, he supposes, for something to happen. People watching. 

He notices the three kids at first because of the ridiculous scarf the oldest boy is wearing. It's too big for him, for one, and it's an eye-searing shade of cyan blue that, Jon notices as the boy looks up, perfectly brings out the color of his eyes. For a good few seconds, he feels breathless. The boy notices him staring, gives a wave and a cheerful smile, then goes back to chattering at his significantly younger companions. They continue on down the street, and Jon is the only one to notice the dropped notebook. 

He stares at it for a second, wondering when it got there, and then turns his head sharply to look at the receding backs of the kids. Did one of them drop it? Almost without thinking, he hops down the steps to pick it up, frowning at the blotches of mud from where it had landed open-page down. What captivates him the most though, are the little sketches he can see through the smearing. Intricate designs, cramped writing, what looks like a deconstructed wristwatch... All rough-lined but perfectly identifiable. 

Suddenly aware that he's prying AND losing time, Jon snaps the notebook shut and sprints after the possible owner. "Excuse me!" He calls, in hopes that they will stop and turn, only to realize he's caught them waiting at a crosswalk. "Um-" he holds the notebook up. "Did you drop this?" He's not sure who to look at, though he's reasonably sure the other two are too young to be drawing in such amazing detail. 

He winds up locking eyes with the scarf boy, who looks first surprised, and then breaks into a grin that dazzles. "Ah, yeah, that's mine! Dropped it, didn't I? 'S what I get for jamming it the outside pocket." Laughing brightly, he swings the backpack off his shoulders and unzips the largest pocket. He holds up his hand expectantly to take it, and Jon stays immobile for one baffled second. Then-

"Oh, right, sorry. Uh, some of the pages got a little muddy, it landed open side down." He passes it over, hoping very hard that he's not making a fool of himself.

But the boy is smiling still, and he takes the notebook with another quick flash of that captivating grin. "It'll do that," he concedes amiably, stashing the spiral pad away. "It was gettin' pretty worn though, 'bout time for a new one, don't cha think?" 

He directs the last part to the girl, who protests "but you just got this one last week!" She seems to have a point, because the boy looks sheepish. 

"Well, 's like I keep tellin' ya, 'Rina, part've being an artist an' all." Then he chuckles again, ruffling her hair, and stands up straight. "Thanks fer bringin' it back though, you didn't hafta run all that way over just fer a dropped sketchbook." Jon has been caught up in trying to place that peculiar, somehow familiar pattern of speech, and he starts a bit when he's addressed again. The way the boy says it is so casual, thanking him, but also suggesting that he'd have been alright without it anyway, and commending him for doing something many others wouldn't think to bother with. 'Do you always speak in layers?' He wants to ask, but then he realizes that theres nothing to suggest the words should be taken at anything but face value. 

Trying subtly to shake his head, as if that'll clear it, he gets out "No, it's fine, you weren't that far. Plus it looked like it had some important things in it." Oh- oh no, he hadn't meant to say that! Did he just accidentally admit to peeping? "I mean, the page was open when I picked it up! And, I wanted to make sure it wasn't stained to bad... So I kinda saw your drawings. They're really good though! I was amazed! I wish I could draw that good." He has to stop and resist the urge to slap a hand over his mouth, feeling his ears heat up with embarrassment. He wasn't usually this bad at interacting with people.

The other boy doesn't seem bothered at all though. He just scratches his neck, looking a bit flattered, and then lets out a breathy laugh. "Aah, that's real nice 'a ya to say that. Really though, nothin' in there but doodles. I'd let ya keep it, but there's some school stuff in there too." Perking up suddenly, he asks, "What's your name? Tell ya what, I'll draw somethin' special for you, and next time I see you, I'll pass it on. You live 'round here, right?" 

Jon can only nod stupidly, struggling to catch up with the conversation. "Down the street, yeah. My name's... Bragi. You can call me Bragi." He tries on a smile of his own, and the other boy looks startled. 

His cohorts are pulling at his clothes though, drawing attention to the slowing traffic. "Right then, Bragi," he says with a nod. "I'll have your masterpiece done by the next time I see ya." With a mock salute, he lets himself be ushered onto the crosswalk, only turning back a moment to call one last thing.

"An' my name's Leif! Don't you forget it!" 

The the line of cars whizzing past through the intersection is like the curtain closing on the first act of a play. Jon thinks he probably couldn't forget the boy's name if he wanted to.

'Leif' seems too familiar.

\- - - 

"Sasha," he asks that night, when they're both cooking dinner, "do you believe in soulmates?" 

It's a measure of how much he trusts his foster mother, a little over two years after having been taken in by her. He likes her, even if the neighbors say she's a bit eccentric and getting on in years, but maybe that's just because she reminds him of Nanna. He's lucky, he thinks, to have found someone like her, who cares about him just as much in her own strange way. She will never be his 'mother', maybe, but he's alright with that. Nanna was the only mother he ever needed. But he would never have mentioned this to anyone (hasn't mentioned this to anyone, not since Nanna) if he didn't trust her a great deal. Law made Sasha his mother, but to him she's more of a teacher and a friend.

The woman in question gives him a raised eyebrow look over her glasses. "Kiddo, you've been hanging around long enough by now, you should know. There's a lot more things I believe in than don't." She doesn't believe in electric stove tops or microwaves, but he's not going to bring that up now. "The idea that there's someone out there who's tied to you by fate through every lifetime, well, that's one of the least far-fetched." As if to accentuate her point, she drops the apples she's been slicing into the boiling pot of turkey stock on the (gas) stove and motions for him to hand over the steamed artichokes. He complies, and she starts dissecting them with purpose. Leaves to be plated, fuzzy insides removed, hearts and stems sliced and added to the broth. 

"I think I met my soulmate today," Jon tells her, staring at her hands. "He had a scarf that was too big for him. It was blue. His eyes were blue, too. He dropped his notebook so I picked it up to give it back, and..." What exactly had happened? It was all a bit of a blue. "He... Said he'd draw me a picture. And he asked me what my name was, and he said he was Leif. But then the light changed so he had to go."

He rests for a moment, his forearms crossed on the counter, watching Sasha work. The way she goes about everything with total precision and confidence is so admirable to him. He thinks he'd like to be that confident, one day. 

"I told him my name was Bragi. It just sort of came out, I thought he was gonna laugh or something, but he didn't. He just... Smiled. And he laughed, but he wasn't laughing at me. I could kinda tell, you know?" He lays his head down on his folded arms now, listening to Sasha pour in cream and dice herbs. The pungent smell of oregano from the window garden tickles his nose, bringing back vaguely happy memories he can't quite pin down. "I don't know why I told him my name was Bragi. You're the only one who calls me that."

Sasha takes the oregano out from under his nose and questions with all the concern of dealing with a teenager over the state of their dress, "Did it feel right?"

He has to think about that for a second. _Did_ it feel right? It didn't feel wrong. It felt like hearing 'Jon' come out of that mouth would be jarring and uncomfortable, while 'Bragi' would not. It's not like he had ever particularly liked or disliked either name, but somehow... Introducing himself as that nickname felt...

"It felt right," he confirms at last. "Do you think he'd have known me if I said 'Jon'? Do you think... Do you think he knows me at all?" And despite what his Nanna had said, he had indeed taken those words to heart. It's somehow better believing that those dreams are more than just his over-eager imagination at work. And after finding that boy on the street, even though he has no way of matching him up with the person in his dream, he feels he just _knows_. He knows it was Leif. 

He dreams that night of someone who looks up at him with bright cyan blue eyes full of love and grief and despair before kissing him once and melting into blood. 

He wakes up crying.

\- - -

After that, he waits. Every weekday, the same time of day he first saw Leif walk past. For a full week. 

After a while, he starts going out earlier, waiting later, sometimes staying out on weekends and holidays. Just in case. He never sees the blue-eyed boy, or even the kids he'd been walking with. 

A month passes before he knows it. Hours spent outside each day, waiting, watching, practicing his guitar, his mandolin, his ukulele. Would Leif be impressed with his talents? He thinks he's getting pretty good, but Sasha always says he can do better. 

After six weeks, he's worried. He still waits outside, between homeschooling lessons from Sasha, playing music and sometimes singing. Some people try and give him money, but he always smiles and explains that he's just playing to play. Some people give him money anyway. That money he sneaks into Sasha's purse. He never notices that she only ever uses it to buy things for him. What she doesn't spend, she hides away in a little jar with the name 'Bragi' written on it. 

After two months, he gives up hope. He still sits outside and plays, turning down tips, still waiting, but not really expecting anything. That's alright though. If they truly are soulmates, he'll find Leif again eventually. So he plays, just out of habit now, and he sings, and sometimes when there aren't so many people around, he sings about the faint memories of his dreams.

Exactly a year after he found and lost Leif, he has all but forgotten. He's moved on. He's fourteen now. Soulmates don't exist. He met a boy on the street one day, and he happened to be nice. That's all there is to it. 

His dreams get darker and more vivid after that. Even Sasha's herbal remedies don't help anymore.

\- - - 

He's seventeen when they meet again. Senior year of highschool, and Sasha insisted that he attend this last year, just to have the experience. She still teaches him on the side of course, she knows much more than a school could (or would) ever teach. She teaches him about music and weaving words. Sometimes she teaches him things more frowned upon in society.

The first time he sees Leif since that one day three years ago, he's standing with a group of friends and laughing. There's a tall boy with a bookish air and glasses that keep sliding down his thin nose. A girl who grins and rolls her eyes once and gives him a friendly elbow when he says something. A pale boy with paler hair and sunglasses on indoors who the smirking girl leans on. And another girl, smaller, more petite, tucked under his arm and curled up against his side. She laughs quietly and demurely, tilts her head up when Leif leans down to kiss her on the forehead.

It makes him feel sick. He's not even sure why. It's like he just stumbled into the middle of a play, except he doesn't know what's going on and all he can see is the actors themselves, putting on acts when the main couple is really a pair of siblings and the lead character is in love with the one playing his estranged nephew.

It's twisted, it's wrong, and he can't look at it. He shuts his locker without putting anything inside and arrives early at his first class. He doesn't even pay attention.

Someone passes him a sheaf of papers near the end of class, and he has no idea what they're for. He looks around desperately for a hint, but all he finds is a very small girl one row back giving him a curious, unblinking stare. 

"Um-" he starts.

"Student handbook," she explains, saving him from having to ask. "You don't look like you plan on causing trouble, so ordinarily I'd say just trash it, but word in the hall's that you're a new student coming in from homeschooling, so it might be worth a read. Just so you don't wind up breaking any rules by accident." She gives him a slightly cheeky half-grin when she finishes, and he's left a little flabbergasted. 

"Oh, thank you, uh...?"

"Charity," she fills in, as though she can read your mind. "But don't let the name fool you, I'm only doing this 'cause I've been in your shoes and I know it sucks." What shoes? He wants to ask, what sucks? But she's already up and walking away. "If you don't hurry, you'll miss your next class. Unless you plan on spacing out through that one too?"

"No, no," he says, standing quickly and gathering his belongings, "that was not the plan. I actually... Came here fully intending to be a model student, but I guess..." He catches up to Charity and scratches the back of his neck a bit sheepishly. "Well, lets just say, it caught me off guard. It was not what I was expecting."

To his surprise, Charity laughs. It's not a remarkable laugh in any way,(not like the person in his dreams, not like his memory of Leif's,) but the simple act of getting her to laugh seems like a great feat. And oddly, it does make him feel better. "Yeah," she says, mouth twisted up in the half grin, "it'll do that."

She's kind enough to escort him to his next class, even though, she points out, her own class is just down the hall, and it turns out they share two other periods later in the day. She's a little blunt, he comes to notice (its hard to miss) but he likes her. He thinks, just maybe, given some time, they might become friends. 

That would be nice.

\--

He doesn't notice the paper at first, tucked between layers of homework and explanation sheets. In fact, he only finally does notice when he's packing up at the end of his final class and some of the papers slide off the desk and scatter across the floor. Sighing, he crouches to collect them, and pauses when he finds one that he doesn't recognize.

It's a plain sheet of lined paper, the standard kind that you can find loose leaf or in spiral notebooks. The right edge is frayed, like it was ripped out of a collection, and the whole front is a mess of lines in blue ballpoint pen. He brings it closer, and sees a figure. Cloaked, masked, and shrouded in the dark, close-set marks indicating shadow. At the bottom, in loopy, messy scrawl, is the word 'Phantom'.

He stares at it for a long while, squatting in an emptying classroom and trying to place why it's giving him déjà vu. After a while, he thinks to flip it over. On the back, written in a much more casual version of the hand that spelled out the work's title, is a string of numbers, an email address, and a hastily added message. 

'sorry it took so long! I hope you haven't forgotten already 

\- Leif'

He has to lean on the desk for a little bit while he gathers himself. 

Leif had remembered. 

How had he remembered? How had he even recognized him? It had been... Three years. Just three years. It felt like lifetimes. And they had only met the once, that he knew of, that gray day when he was only thirteen, back when he still believed that soulmates could really exist. 

He buries his face in his hands. The urge to burst into tears tugs at his chest, but he resists, not least because he doesn't want to smudge the picture. When he composes himself enough to sit up and take out his phone (sending a silent prayer of thanks for the day that Sasha had finally agreed to get him one, on the argument that it was 'for emergencies') his hands are ever so slightly shaking.

He doesn't have the courage to do more than just enter the number into his contact list. Right below 'Home', a four letter name he hadn't even know how to spell until now. A boy he's afraid to find and lose again.

He dreams that night of being surrounded by more friends than he's ever had in his life. He dreams of contentment, of summer, and of clear blue eyes that laugh so beautifully that he wants to cry. He wakes with a crumpled paper clutched to his chest and a damp patch on his pillow.

He breathes out. 

\- - -

He doesn't know how, but Leif finds him first. Catches his eye outside during lunch, looking around for Charity with the apprehension of someone not quite sure if they've made a friend or not, and waves him over to the empty bench he's claimed. He's wearing a garish silk scarf today, somewhere on the spectrum between pink and orange. It's hideous, but somehow, it suits him. The fact that he's alone seems strange, but it's a relief as well as a cause for anxiety, so he doesn't question it.

Leif is small, he notices, as he sits down. His knees bend up when he sits, but Leif's feet barely touch the ground. When he leans back and crosses his ankles, they swing through empty air, and it seems like it should be poetic. (He can't think of a poetic way to say 'the boy looks as carefree as his feet that don't touch the ground' though, so he doesn't comment on it.) It's not, he notes, that Leif has short limbs. It's just that everything about him seems to be smaller, more delicate, like a girl. He doesn't mean to be offensive. He thinks it's captivating. 

"I got your picture," he says, when the other boy doesn't offer any sign of wanting to strike up conversation. "I didn't think you'd even remember me. Thank you." His lunch sits in his lap, handmade this morning, but he can't find it in him to eat. He just looks at the plain paper bag and picks out grease spots on the rim. He's afraid to look up and meet those blue eyes. 

A sort of happy humming sound comes from his right, and he glances over to catch a shot of Leif with his face tilted up to the sky and a serene expression on his face. "Well, I said I would, didn't I? But 's nice to know it wasn't all for nothin'. I mean," he can see Leif look over out of the corner of his eye, still smiling, always smiling, "you remembered too, didn't cha?"

He can't argue with that, but he's not sure what to say either, so he just stays silent. Leif doesn't seem to mind. He just goes back to watching the clouds. After a while, he asks, "Didjoo like it? The picture. I kinda realized too late that it prob'ly wouldn't make sense to you, but I decided it'd be cool 'f I drew what I thought your character'd look like. Y'looked like a Mage to me."

He is completely lost, and it must show on his face because Leif looks over and then tries to explain himself. "Mage, the class, like in Dungeons and Dragoms, y'know? You're kind've a mysterious guy to me, and you look like the sort who'd be all over magic stuff. I think I made it look a bit too spooky though, that wasn't on purpose." He laughs, but it's not a self-deprecating sort of laugh. More like he's laughing at joke he just cracked.

"You play Dungeons and Dragons?" he asks, and Leif's eyes light up in delight. Before he can regret asking, he's launched into a long monologue on the subject, starting with a rave about how much he loves it, asking if Bragi's ever played, and then telling him all about the tabletop roleplay club he started in his second year of middle school.

It's strange, since Bragi knows next to nothing about the topic and has never been interested in it, but sitting on that bench and listening to Leif's stories, he never once feels bored. Maybe it's the way he talks about everything, with such infectious enthusiasm, like he could talk for days and never get tired, turning even the most mundane things into epic tales of adventure and hilarity. Or maybe it's how he talks with his whole body, always moving, never at rest, but still somehow completely at ease. And maybe, just maybe, it's the fact that he says everything with a grin on his face and a laugh in his voice. It's like being welcomed into a home with open arms, and so, so painfully familiar that he can't keep the smile off his face.

Eventually they're joined by a gaggle of Leif's friends, the ones he'd noticed on the first day. Leading the group is the elbowing girl, ("Kycin," she later introduces herself,) who is complaining quite audibly about long lunch lines and one of the boys' picky eating habits holding them all up. Charity is among them, which comes as a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. Suddenly Bragi is surrounded on all sides by grinning, laughing, open faces who look at him appraisingly, but as an equal. Leif introduces him as 'Bragi', and he doesn't even think to make the correction. It just feels _right_. And for the first time since he can remember, he feels like he's found where he belongs.

\- - - 

He's accepted so easily into the group that it should feel unnatural. But it's not. It's just the opposite. It's like he's the one they've been waiting for, and now that he's here, everything can finally begin.

He's inducted into the roleplay group almost without his consent, but he doesn't mind at all. He loves it. Leif teaches him how to build a character and play a campaign, and in return, he tells Bragi about himself. He came from a family of five kids. They had a rough time the past few years, financially, but he works part time to help support everyone. He's eighteen, and because he had to take a year off school during the worst of it, he's set back a grade. He's known Francis and Kycin since sixth grade, and Haven since they were kids. He doesn't like to talk about that. He also dodges questions about whether he's dating Kithaya, the dainty girl.

It's not just Leif who he gets to know. Being in a group like this one, it's impossible for him not to learn about the others. Their personalities, little quirks, how they live outside of school, and the way they interact among themselves. The oddity of their unusual names, from ones that sound foreign to a couple that are actual words.

(He brings this up with Leif, once, wondering if they're nicknames but the boy just shakes his head and laughs. "It's a local thing. You live 'round here long enough, you start thinkin' names like these are what's normal, so you name your kids the same way. 'Sides, you're not one to talk. I've never even heard of anyone named 'Bragi'." 

At this, he tries to explain the origin of his nickname to Leif, tell him it's after a god of poetry, but he's overruled through interruption. "Doesn't really matter though, does it? I mean, s'not hurting anybody. It's just a neat thing." A valid point, and Bragi stops to think about it, then shrug. Too short to reach his shoulder, Leif pats him on the forearm. "There's lotsa stuff in the world like that. You get used to it.")

There are some things about the group that remain a mystery to him. Small details he notices where everyone looks uncomfortable, or collective topics they all avoid, but he's okay with that. Everyone has their secrets. Its normal. Really, it only bothers him a little bit, knowing that there are some things he'll always be left out of, just because he was a little late in arriving. It's fine. It's perfectly fine. 

He strikes up a unique friendship with the boy called Haven, who explains in due time that his paleness comes from being genetically albino. It means he shouldn't go outside much, even weak sun burns his skin, and he's frailer than most boys. He downs a handful of pills every day with his lunch. He's absent from school more frequently than is considered normal. Sometimes he comes back with dark yellow-purple marks on his cheekbones. He says it's because he's sickly, his skin bruises easily, but the others look away with expressions ranging from sad to bitter to angry at the words, and Leif touches his face with too much concern when he asks if it hurts. 

Despite all this, he's a pretty upbeat guy. Quieter than Leif, (everyone is,) but not as shy as Francis. He cracks jokes, sometimes at his own expense, and he pushes the boys and Kycin around as though he either doesn't remember how fragile he is or just doesn't care. He likes being rebellious, Bragi learns, and tells stories of stealing booze from his businessman father's liquor cabinet to donate to college parties. 

(Sometimes Bragi wonders if this worries the others, but then he'll catch sight of the knives Charity hides in her boots or the edge of a looping red design under Kycin's long sleeves or Francis on his knees from under the partition of a bathroom stall and he thinks that maybe there's a reason they don't talk about these things.)

Dysfunctional as they are, they're like a family, and the months Bragi spends with them stretch out like a blissful haze. They go trick-or-treating in October, even though they're too old and their costumes are all slapped together last minute, and they laugh when they find out that Leif got the most candy because all the adults thought he was fourteen. ('Aww, how sweet of you to take your little brother out with you!' Kycin mimics when they all return to her house, and then builds a tower of chocolate that she refuses to let anyone else touch.) They watch horror movies until they all fall asleep on the living room floor and wake up sore and candy-hungover, but Bragi is happy because at six in the morning Leif left his spot curled against Haven and wandered over to spoon up to him instead.

For Thanksgiving, they're invited to Leif's house, with all of his extended family and family friends. It seems impossible that they're going to be able to fit everyone inside, much less feed them all, but everyone pitches in and they manage it. It ends up like more of a potluck than a holiday, and even though they have to sleep in tents outside, Bragi gives thanks because when he falls asleep next to Haven with Leif wedged between them he wakes up to the smallest boy nestled into his chest. 

When Sasha hears how Thanksgiving went, she declares that he should bring everyone over for Christmas. He doesn't expect anyone to be able to make it, they all have families and surely they won't want to be away from home two big holidays in a row, but everyone makes it and they all seem ecstatic about it. (Whether its the prospect of seeing his home, or just getting away from their families, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter.) The flat isn't very big, but it's cozy and domestic, and maybe their 'Christmas turkey' is actually one of Sasha's experimental vegitarian loafs, but it's good and it's filling and Leif climbs into bed with him in the middle of the night whispering that he can't sleep, so Bragi doesn't really mind at all. 

\- - -

It's a cold day during winter vacation when the first real snowstorm hits. It starts in the morning, just a few stray flakes, nothing unusual, and Bragi found himself rushing out the door. He doesn't take much notice of the weather reports in general, and it didn't occur to him today that he might need something warmer than the jacket he usually wears. (It's not like he thinks he'll need one, they're only going to the local mall complex.) But when the flakes started coming down heavy by nine o'clock, he starts to think he's made a mistake. 

That mistake is what led to the situation he's in now. He might have been fine without a coat if he'd just been running out to the bus and then inside, but he couldn't have known Leif would be so excited by the three inches of snow by afternoon that he'd grab them all and drag them outside. Bragi, in his flimsy windbreaker, tries to keep up, but it's so cold he doesn't last long. 

They're still out there when he surrenders to the elements and retreats indoors. He can see them out the window, watches Kithaya flop down and start making a snow angel as he tries to brush the melting snow out of his hair. It's still coming down. It's not blizzardy or anything, but the flakes are so large and close that it's whited out nearly everything past a sixty foot radius. He takes off the jacket and turns to lay it over one of the heating vents on the floor, but starts suddenly when he realizes he's not alone. 

Pale as he is, Haven almost blends into the scenery outside. He's sitting up on the wide sill, watching the rest of his friends shove snow down each others collars with his chin resting in his hand. It's a little eerie for a moment, and then just vaguely sad. Bragi's no photographer, but he wishes he had a camera anyway, to capture the way his silhouette contrasts starkly with the bright ambiance outside and the blurred view of colorful children playing in the snow. 

Haven turns his head, catches Bragi staring, and raises an eyebrow. "Done already?"

In response, Bragi holds up his jacket. "Soaked through, and it hasn't even been ten minutes. You'd think I would've anticipated something like this and brought a real coat. The others did, at least." He glances back out the window in time to see Leif mercilessly battering Kycin with snow-encrusted mittens. Unconsciously, he lets a smile draw across his face. Haven catches it. 

"They're a high energy lot, aren't they?" He notes, conversationally. "They can be hard to keep up with sometimes." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice and his eyes that's more noticeable than Bragi thinks he would usually let on. It occurs to him suddenly, and he feels ashamed for his belated realization, that this probably isn't an unusual thing. Haven being forced to hang back because he's too weak or sickly or sensitive to participate. What must that feel like? Bragi wonders. To be held back by something you have no control over, handicapped physically but still holding the desire to run and play and be okay with getting injured. 

He can't empathize, but he can sympathize. He doesn't think Haven really wants sympathy though. So he goes on and lays his jacket over the floor vent like he'd meant to, and he climbs up onto the small ledge to lean against the opposite side of the wide window from where Haven sits.

"It does get tiring," he agrees. "But I think I like it that way. Because-" he casts a cautious glance at Haven and quickly turns his eyes back to the snowy courtyard "-they seem so happy. Like this is something they can really put their hearts into enjoying. And even if their lives are rough, they've got each other, and they really do love each other. All of us." He chuckles a bit too fondly, and then catches himself. "That's all Leif though, isn't it? He started the whole club, he brought everyone together and he keeps them together. He went and left for three years and you all still managed to hang on. I think that's amazing." 

He doesn't look at first, a little hesitant to see Haven's reaction, but when he does turn his gaze onto the pale boy, he's startled to see an unreadable mix of contempt, disgust, raw pain, and a strange hint of affection. He can't fathom what he's said that would bring forth such a chaotic mix of emotions in his friend, and it frightens him a little bit. He'd thought he knew Haven well enough to maybe reassure him, but it seems he was mistaken. 

"He is... one of a kind, alright," Haven murmurs at last, brow still furrowed. He's watching out the window still, and he hasn't once made eye contact with his fellow window-watcher. "Honestly, I always thought he was a bit of a weird guy. Not much else. But there's really a whole lot more to him than I gave him credit for. He's still weird, but he... He's pure. He's the only one of us who's not mangled and broken inside, and I don't know if he doesn't notice or doesn't care or what, but whatever it is, something about that just manages to keep us all sane." Haven blows out a misty breath against the window pane and draws a pattern of Xs as it dissipates. Someone outside yelps, and even muffled through the door, they can hear the peals of gleeful laughter that follow. Haven's mouth twitches into a sardonic almost-smile.

"It wasn't always like that, you know. We were all pretty cheerful and innocent before he left. But things happened while he was gone. We all thought it was going to be too much change when he came back, but the minute he walked in the door, it was like..." He waves his hands in a universal 'poof' gesture. "Nothing ever happened. Just like that. Picking up right where we left off." He goes silent for a long minute, and Bragi feels like he should say something, but no words come to mind. 

Finally Haven spits out, "It's fucking awkward. I can't stand it. Nothing's ever going to change as long as he's around, we're just going to go back to being kids forever, ignoring everything. It's not his _fault_ of course, not really. He's got no idea what kind of effect he has. But if nothing changes..." He shakes his head. "Best case, I go crazy and end up saying something dumb and hurting him again. Worst case..." He narrows his eyes, and Bragi can see dark thoughts swirling in the depths of those bloodshot blue orbs. "Well, worst case, I have to take matters into my own hands." 

Bragi is entirely speechless by this point. It's not that Haven is naturally quiet or anything, but this is the first time he's spilled his thoughts so openly. That Bragi knows of, anyway. It scares him. 

The sound of chatter from outside has dwindled, and Haven is sliding off his perch in anticipation for the wet return party. Hastily, before he can be interrupted, Bragi blurts, "You do care about him quite a lot though, don't you?" It comes out less of a question than he meant it, but from the shadowed look of agony it earns, quickly masked by the one it's directed at, he thinks he gets his answer. 

"I care about all of them," Haven says aloud. "They're my friends." He flashes a smile, less strained than Bragi would expect, and adds, "you're my friend too, obviously."

Then the door bursts open behind him, spilling five snow-dusted, cold-numbed figures into the hallway. "Close the door!" Kycin's voice shouts at whoever is in the back, and the chill air that had been swirling around ceases, to the blissful sighs of several. 

Stripping begins immediately, during which Leif directs a curious inquiry to the only two still dry. "What were y' talkin' 'bout?" he asks through lips that have turned a fascinating shade of purple. "I only heard the last bit of what Snow said." The nickname, which has been in use by Leif for years, is especially ironic in the situation, and even Bragi finds himself grinning a bit with the infectious mood.

"Just stuff," Haven explains. He seems to sense that it's not a good enough answer to keep questions at bay, and adds, "I was thinking, if no one else volunteers, maybe you guys could all come over to my place for New Years." This gets everyone's attention. A collective 'oooh' goes up from the now damp and mostly de-frocked crowd. 

"The mansion?!" gasps Kithaya. and even Francis looks awed, though Charity has a rather worrying glint in her eye. 

Kycin is only slightly less impressed. "Well it's about your damn turn by now! The last time I got to see it was... What was it, ninth grade? There was that big block party, and Haden smuggled us in so we could hang out and use the 75-inch television screen to play Mario Kart..." There's a few titters and nostalgic comments, but Bragi's more interested in the reactions themselves. 

"That must have been years ago though," he puzzles. "How come you haven't been since?"

A sort of awkward pause ensures, until Leif and Haven both jump in to explain at the same time.

"My father..."

"...very fancy, don't like dirt..."

"...kind of a hardass..."

"...won't even let family use the living room! I mean, what's the point of that?!"

"...but whatever, you know? So I just don't bother."

He has to stop and take a moment to process the flood, but once he does, he thinks he gets the gist of it.

"Anyway, he's not going to be home for New Years, some big company party thing in New York he has, so he'll be gone for four days. You guys can come over on the Monday in the evening and have the house to yourselves, stay the night, and then on Tuesday we can just hang out all day. Maybe I'll get Haden and Dwalin to invite some other people over and we can have a party." 

The response to this is overwhelmingly positive, and Bragi wonders if its because they're all so inexperienced with parties, or if it's just that they trust Haven and his brothers so much. Either way, he's already counted himself in, and lets Leif know as much when the boy hangs off his arm with a blazing grin and stars in his eyes. 

He can't help but shake a nagging feeling of unease though, as if this is the precursor the something bigger and the new year will bring surprises in less pleasant ways than everyone is hoping. Still, it's hard to stay gloomy when you're surrounded by bubbly teens anticipating a party in a mansion house, so Bragi lets it go. There's not much he can do, anyway, when it's just a hunch. He'll keep an eye out, and he'll hope for the best. 

\- - -

Haven's house is what Charity scornfully describes as a 'McMansion', and lies in a neighborhood stamped with almost identical houses at regular intervals. According to the boy who lives there, it's a five-bedroom three-point-five-bathroom house, and every single one of his neighbors is a middle aged business worker. 

"It's insufferable," he tells them. "The lawns are only a cubic acre and a half, but everyone has a gardener. Most of them don't even bother to mow unless they're feeling 'fatherly' or something, they just let the guy they hired for their dinky flower beds do everything."

Haven's twin brother meets them at the door. He has a car and a license (just barely) so he drives himself to and from school while the motley D&D crew takes the bus. (Haven could theoretically ride with his brother, but seems to prefer taking the bus.) Despite his distinctly jock-like airs though, Haden is a pretty good guy. He greets them jovially, even going so far as to fist-bump Kycin, and points them upstairs to where the entertainment room is. 

"My brother has probably already said it, but make yourselves at home. Don't even worry about making a mess. That's what we have the maid for." He winks, obviously joking, but Bragi knows for a fact that they do actually have a cleaning lady who comes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Unless she has New Years day off, which he somehow doubts, she'll be cleaning up after them. Ideally, before the man of the house even gets home. Haven has definitely planned this well.

Haden plays Call of Duty with them for a while, and is thoroughly average at it. He confesses, sheepishly and while under the pressure of Kycin's noogies, that he's better at sports simulators. They tease him lightly about it for a bit, and then a discussion about the Frozenpool boys' gaming habits arises, which segues into someone asking about Dwalin. 

"Yeah, he's been invited to spend the holiday at his girlfriend's house. They've already gone through the whole 'meeting the parents' thing. They're so serious about it, it's kind of ridiculous." Haden passes the controller back to Francis, who immediately starts setting up a snipe camp.

"Aren't they like, fifteen though? Do they think they're gonna get married when they graduate highschool or something?" Kycin's lounging on the couch, one leg thrown over the back, hands behind her head. Haden shrugs. 

"I dunno." He leans back against the couch and stretches his legs out across the floor. "I don't mind though, it means he's out of the house while we throw our underage drinking party." He tilts his head back and grins up at Kycin.

Kithaya is worrying her lip, perched on the arm of the couch and systematically knocking down and knifing everyone she runs into. Finally she blurts, "Aren't you worried about them, like, having an accidental pregnancy or something?" 

A loud snort comes from Haven. He rests his elbow on the ground and raises his eyebrows, not taking his eye off the screen. "Honestly, I'd be more worried about him hanging around with us bad influences. Here I wouldn't trust him not to get mixed up with a bad crowd, but I definitely trust he's not gonna get laid any time soon." His comment earns a mild round of disapproving reprimand from Haden, but it seems they can both agree when it comes to their little brother. Eventually Kycin tosses down her controller and announces that she's sick of playing CoD, can they play something else now. Her words are met with grumbled acceptance and general agreement, so the good old standard of Mario Kart is booted up, and they waste some more time with that until the pizza arrives.

\- - -

The morning of December 31st dawns bright and clear, and no one in the house gets to see it. They all sleep past noon. Despite a mutual agreement that they should save their energy for New Year's Eve, no one really wanted to slither into a cold guest bed in a vast, strange house, so they wound up playing video games until two and passing out in a pile of blankets in the middle of the floor. 

Bragi blinks awake around one fifteen PM feeling cold. He rolls over and finds himself alone, the makeshift nest flattened and scattered across the plush carpet. For a moment, he panics. Then the sound of raised voices and clanking registers in his mind, and he pulls himself upright to wander down into the kitchen, rubbing his arms and wishing for something warmer than the rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants he fell asleep in. 

He's greeted at the foot of the stairs by Kithaya, who cheerily informs him that "The heating was broken, but Haven fixed it," and assures that it'll warm up soon enough. 

"What's for breakfast?" He queries, following it with a wide yawn.

Kithaya shrugs. "Pretty much everything. Toast, bagels, cereal. Leif was making eggs I think, but Haven banned him from using the stovetop after he almost melted a spatula and set the eggs on fire. There's yogurt too, if you're more into the healthy stuff." She seems completely unconcerned by her friend (questionmark, boyfriend?) and his near kitchen disaster, but Bragi's gathered by now that it's not an unusual occurrence. Leif does have a flair for the creative and dramatic. 

There's nothing short of racket emanating from the kitchen, and Bragi cringes a bit at the thought of walking into what sounds like an argument over sweet vs. non-sweet breakfast foods. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to bring me something," he comments with a rueful smile. Kithaya shakes her head and laughs, ushering him into the midst of the ruckus.

Leif is the second person, after Kithaya, to greet him. His face lights up like a billboard when they walk in, advertising his delight to the whole room. "Ah, Sleeping Beauty's finally up! G'mornin', darlin'!" There's friendly chuckling at his comment, between continuing banter, and Bragi concedes to the friendly ribbing, trying not to focus on how Leif just called him by a pet name. (Twice, if you counted the 'Sleeping Beauty' bit.)

In an effort to change the subject, he looks around and asks, "Where's Haden? Upstairs?" He's not particularly concerned about the older twin's whereabouts, but it makes for a nice derailment from the train of thought he's ignoring. 

In response, Leif shakes his head. "Nah, he went out. Somethin' about prior arrangements. He say 'f he was gonna be back tonight, Snow?" The last comment is directed at the boy in charge, who looks over from his halfhearted position in the debate.

"Who? Oh, Haden?" Something flickers across the boy's face, but it's an expression Bragi can't identify. "Yeah, he's going to try and bring the party here. The other option was Akelo's house, and they've got a pretty well-enforced rule about no drinking. Cop dads apparently don't discriminate between minors and their kids." He rolls his eyes, flicking them to the cabinet above the fridge and letting a lopsided grin tug at his mouth before turning back to the slowly dying debate.

"Well there ya have it." Leif shrugs. "Want some food?"

In the end, he settles for making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on toast, because someone ate almost all of the Cheerios and used the rest to make an artistic design in the center of the table. It's the first time he's had pure white bread since he was ten. It tastes like nirvana and home. 

Haven seems uncharacteristically at ease with everyone trashing his house, and only takes action against them once, when Charity is discovered trying to steal approximately her own weight in polished silverware by hiding it under her clothes. She spends a full minute carefully putting them back in the drawer one by one, keeping gaze with Haven through narrow eyes. When she's finally returned the last of them the other girls burst into enthusiastic applause, much to Haven's chagrin. (Bragi later catches her casually spinning a solid silver butter knife between two fingers and then pocketing it. He's pretty sure Haven notices, but the house owner doesn't mention it, so Bragi stays silent as well.)

At 4:57 on the dot, Haden returns, bringing with him a handful of his own friends. Introductions fly over Bragi's head, none of them quite sticking. The two groups at least seem relatively familiar with each other, and though they keep their distance for the most part, there's no hostility. The only exceptions are Haven, who obviously knows his brother's friends the same way Haden knew his own, Leif, who seems to share a degree of familiarity with the bespectacled Akelo, and Kycin. The latter watches everyone with the same stony reservation she uses in place of shyness, until she spots a pair of nearly identical twins in the background. These boys she greets enthusiastically, elbowing through the crowd at the door and throwing her arms over their broad shoulders when they bend down in response to being hailed. They trade a few playful punches and shoves, and then Kycin trails them inside. Haden looks slightly put out by the whole display.

It starts off easy enough, with everyone congregating in the entertainment room and taking turns with the controls. After a while, once the initial awkwardness dissipates and things become more comfortable, they break off into smaller groups. Bragi can hear people downstairs, in the kitchens, in the living room, but he stays with who he knows and lets Leif and Charity show him the ropes in Assassin's Creed.

He doesn't quite notice when things start to go downhill. He registers the door opening and closing on a few more guests, but only being able to tell from sound, he figures it's just a couple late arrivals. He's quickly distracted again by the game, anyway. The guards are onto him and Leif is bouncing on the edge of the couch telling him where to run.

Looking back though, he thinks it was probably a case of two friends telling two friends and so on. The fact of the matter is, they all find themselves in the midst of the kind of highschool booze parties they've only ever heard about. Playing video games can only hold their attention for so long, especially when the sound of loud bass is vibrating under their feet, and Haven has finally broken open his father's liquor cabinet, so the room is soon filled with tipsy teenagers laughing and trying to see who can play Left 4 Dead the longest without getting squeamish.

Somewhere in the chaos, Bragi loses track of his friends. It's not really so bad. There's maybe twenty or thirty people milling about now, but he's always been good enough at socializing. Homeschooling, contrary to popular belief, does not mean total isolation from peers. So he chats with some strangers, joking around but turning down drink offers. He finds a few girls checking him out, and responds to their flirting with a smile and a compliment in return. It's not as effortless as it would usually be. It makes him feel almost guilty. He doesn't like that.

He excuses himself sooner than is probably necessary from the small gaggle of flirters, making an excuse about a bathroom run, and they titter but let him go easily enough. At least one looks like she wants to follow though, which he tries to discourages by heading swiftly into the hall. He waits a moment after rounding the corner, but this area at least, with the laundry room and (comparatively) small bathroom, is far enough from the main rooms to be effectively deserted. Slumping against the wall, Bragi breathes out a silent sigh of relief. 

The memory of those girls, and his handling of them, still nags at him though. He decides, after a moment, that maybe a bathroom break wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. He needs to wash his face and cool his thoughts.

Approaching the half-bath though, he catches the sound of voices. Familiar voices. Stopping in his tracks, he's still too late to keep from eavesdropping, and then he can't make his feet move at all. 

"You're drunk," Haven is saying, but Bragi notices he doesn't make an attempt to push Leif away.

"So're you."

A snort of mild contempt. "Don't kid yourself, I'm no lightweight." Pause. "Unlike you. What's up? You don't usually drink." 

Leif doesn't speak for a while, just emits a few muted grumbles and seems to shift deeper into Haven's embrace. Finally he mutters, "I miss you."

There's a deep sigh from Haven before he responds. "I haven't gone anywhere. I'm right here." The rustle of cloth indicates Leif shaking his head.

"No. No you're not. I went, 'n you changed. Without me. What happened, Snow? 'S scaring me."

There's an even longer pause this time. "People change," he says at last. "You can't stop it from happening. You have to live with it, and you have to move on. That's just the way things are." There's movement again, and through the crack Bragi can see Haven carefully extracting the smaller boy from where he's been clinging for the past however long. Panicking, Bragi retreats. "Here," the sound of the tap running, splashing. "Drink. And keep drinking, or you'll feel like royal shit tomorrow." Leif makes an indistinguishable sound that could be words or could be nothing at all. "Give yourself a while to sober up, alright? I need to go check on Kycin before she drinks us out of house and home."

Bragi doesn't bother to stick around after that, too afraid of being caught eavesdropping. He ducks into a crowded room down the hall and waits until he sees Haven moving through in the opposite direction. After a few more tense seconds, he escapes upstairs. The image of Leif clinging desperately to Haven stays branded behind his eyelids all the way to the first empty guest room he finds. He pulls the door shut behind himself.

It's clean, there's no dust, and the sheets on the bed look fresh, but there's an emptiness to it that's slightly eerie. The furnishings are minimal. There are no personal items. It's like a hotel room, but with a distinctly un-lived in quality. The covers are scratchy and stiffer than Bragi's used to, and lying on the bed seems almost wrong, like touching a museum piece. He wonders, vaguely, if this is what it's like for Haven, living in this almost soulless mansion where everything that makes a 'home' has to be wrought painstakingly by hand with the knowledge that it will all be wiped clean in seventy-two hours or less. Laying out intentional messes so it feels, just for a little while, like a house instead of a static installment. 

Suddenly, he is overcome with the urge to follow through with that ideal. Topple vases, swing paintings crooked, move furniture, and fling the sheets and pillows so they look like they've been slept in. He resists though. This is not his life, nor his home, and it's not his place to decide. And anyway, it would probably be rude. There's enough mess being made through the rest of the house. 

He stares at the ceiling for a long time, lost in thought, absentmindedly tracing the subtle shadows cast by the overhead lights. A delicate, chandelier-like construction with white glass shades in the shape of bells, or maybe flowers. (Sasha would never have something like this, he thinks. She likes pretty things, but this is bland and colorless and impractical. The lights are dim. Changing the bulbs is probably a hassle.) When the door clicks and opens, he starts, caught off guard and slightly confused by the sudden jolt back to reality. A low voice mumbles an apology, and he sits up as Leif shuts the door behind himself.

The boy looks wilted, his eyes rimmed in red, though Bragi isn't sure if its because of the residual smoke or because he was crying. He scoots over as Leif crawls onto the bed, lifting his arms slightly when his small friend leans against him, and then settles them back, one around his waist, one across his shoulder blades. Leif sighs.

Thinking to start conversation, and (ideally) stave off awkwardness, he asks, "How did you know I was here?"

"Guessed. Asked around. Nobody'd seen you in any of the big rooms, and Charity's put her claim on the other bedroom, so I figured you'd be here." He falls silent for a moment. "She brought her hand game thing. She's smart."

Bragi laughs quietly, thinking how typical it is of her. She's not the type to enjoy parties or crowds, and she must have anticipated this. He can just imagine her holed up in there with her DS and a stack of books stolen from the small library-slash-office. "Wish I'd thought of that. I don't own anything like that though. Sasha still looks at me like I've just personally chopped down a tree whenever I turn on the television." A soft hum of agreement, or maybe sympathy, comes from Leif. He doesn't seem to be paying attention though, and they lapse back into silence.

After a while (long enough for Bragi's legs to start protesting the slightly awkward position, but not long enough for them to go numb,) Leif turns his head slightly and mumbles, "Hey... I'm still drunk, y'know."

It's hard for Bragi to tell what he means by that. A meaningless comment? A awkward request for help? An invitation? Afraid of misinterpreting, he decides to stay with what he knows. "Nah. You're not."

There's a push on his chest as Leif struggles upright, his expression a blend of confusion and mild insult, so he hastens to explain. "Your speech. You don't mumble as much when you're upset, you enunciate your words." He smiles, a little hesitant. "Like a proper gentleman." But in his head he's thinking, You were pretending. He wonders if Haven notices little things like that. Had he known? In the bathroom, he'd been so unconcerned about leaving his inebriated friend alone. A cold lump settles in Bragi's gut, a product of the fear and discomfort the prickles his skin when he starts to realize exactly how things are between the two. 

Leif is still half on his lap, brow scrunched into deep frown lines. Finally he sighs, and buries his face in the dip where Bragi's collarbone meets his shoulder. "Least you coulda done was pretend to believe me," he mutters, but he sounds more sulky than hurt so it can't be so bad. Bragi shifts, and folds his arms around the boy in his lap once again.

"You don't need an excuse, you know." It comes out mild and thoughtful, which is honestly more than Bragi thought himself capable of in this situation, but his companion just snorts.

"Not with you I don't." Then the bitter words he just spoke seem to sink in, and Leif lifts his head. "Right?"

Fear, Bragi realizes. That's what he's been seeing. Just glimpses, between conversations, hidden behind jokes. Not an hour ago, when he clung so tightly to his childhood friend. And now, held in his gaze as he seeks confirmation, afraid of being treated dispassionately, ignored and forgotten. Slowly, Bragi is starting to learn what lies behind the easy laughter that first drew him, and it hurts. It hurts to watch, and it hurts to know there are some things he'll never quite understand, just because he wasn't there. 

When he says "Never," he means it. He really does want to understand Leif, and he really does want to help. Even though he's still not sure quite what that would entail. But he cares. He cares about Leif so much, even after all this time, and he wants to see him happy as much as possible.

Leif might be considering it, or he might have given up on thinking, but either way he doesn't speak. He just rests his head against Bragi's neck, and, when Bragi has to move because his legs hurt, curls into him like a wounded pet. 

After a while, Leif begins to cry. Bragi holds him tight. The wracking sobs fade, eventually, and turn into long even breaths. Thinking he looks cold, but not wanting to disturb him by getting a blanket, Bragi just tucks him closer and twines their legs together. 

He falls asleep like that himself, but not before he succumbs to the temptation of pressing his lips to the top of Leif's head. Hairs tickle his nose as he mouths the words he's too afraid to say out loud, and in his sleep, Leif seems to sigh. 

The faint pounding of the bass lulls him into dreams of circus acts and burning houses. He's safe, though. Tucked away in a cool green woods, he is safe, and so is Leif. They are spectators. Nothing more.

\- - -

Something changes between them on that day. Something significant, something irreversible. Bragi knows it, but he can't quite understand it. It feels important. It feels like déjà vu, like remembering something buried deep in layers of subconscious but elusive to being pinned down, no matter how hard he tries. The sensation of hurtling along through years of elapsing time, even as the winter days drag out like children reluctant to go to bed. 

On the surface, nothing has really changed. They're closer, but not noticeably. Not to others, anyway. They all seem quite wrapped up in their own lives, and they either don't see or don't care that their smallest ringleader is now just as open towards Bragi with his physical affections as he was with Haven, if not a great deal more.

(Leif admits, during one of the not-uncommon nights where he stays over on the excuse that his own house is too full, that Haven never really accepted his needy physical contact. Tolerated, sure, but only barely. There was simply too much between them for it to be untainted by awkwardness. And in his mind, Bragi sees them standing back to back, afraid to look each other in the eye lest one of them end up getting hurt. Again. He pulls Leif closer, as if he can destroy the thought by doing what Haven never would.) 

They're not the only ones who have changed though. On the surface, again, everything seems perfectly ordinary. They're all used to some degree of underlying issues left unsaid, and they're used to being able to ignore it with ease. But this... This is pervasive, unshakable. A sense of standing on the brink of a calamity, but unsure of where or how the final trigger might appear. It eats away at Bragi's unconscious mind, leaving him anxious and unsettled. He can't tell if the others feel the same or not.

Regardless, there seems to be nothing he can do, with no obvious source at the time. And he has better things to worry about. He would rather focus his attention on learning everything he can about Leif, while the boy is still within his grasp. (A part of him fears, not without reason, that he will lose his 'soulmate' again, and the idea tears painfully at his gut.) So instead of wondering what might be wrong, he pushes it all to the bottom and drowns the sensation of foreboding with the feel of Leif's touch as he grows steadily less reserved with it. 

Which, in retrospect, he sees as a terrible, terrible mistake. He should have seen this coming. He should have stopped it.

But he didn't, and it happens anyway.

It happens on a cold, gray day in late January, and no one really understands why. No one is expecting it. No one even thought for a moment that it would come to this. 

It happens on a quiet day, in one of the many indistinguishable weeks that flatline between the end of winter break and the melting of the snow. Maybe it's a little more mellow than usual, maybe Haven seems strangely withdrawn, but he does that sometimes. They've never questioned it before. They just let him be. Maybe that was the mistake.

It happens in the middle of their lunch hour, in the cold, echoing space of the cafeteria. The clack of his boots is lost in the cacophony of crowd noise as he stands and steps up onto the table. "What are you doing?" Hiss the other the children seated around him. "Get down!" But then he pulls a .45 caliber Colt from his jacket, takes aim, and shoots through one of the florescent ceiling lights. 

The first reaction he gets is a round of startled yelps and shrieks. People whip their heads around, instinctively seeking out the source of the noise. When they find it, standing on a table in the farthest corner of the room with the gun still raised, the screams begin. 

"SHUT UP!" roars Haven, and his voice cracks on the end. Another bang, smash, and the tinkle of falling plexiglass can be heard throughout the now silent room as it bounces off the floor tiles. "Move back," he orders to those closest to the table. They hesitate at first, but something about the coldness in the boy's gaze sends even his friends scrambling away. 

Adults shoulder towards the front, others near the doors starting to inch away. Haven levels the pistol in their direction, and everyone freezes again. His voice is harsh and ringing when he tells them, "Don't move. And listen up." 

"Snow-" A voice begins, but is immediately cut off.

"Shut UP, Leif! Don't call me that! We're not friends." Leif makes a choking sound, and Bragi feels anger start to burn through the fear. It's not over yet though. "You think you're helping by playing mother-hen for everyone? You think anyone feels better about themselves knowing how _sad_ and _upset_ their dear Leif will be if they pretend they're anything less than fucking peachy?" His hands are shaking on the pistol's grip. Leif's hand is trembling in Bragi's grip. "This isn't even about you! So don't you dare pretend to give a shit."

He turns back, sweeping the barrel of the gun over the frozen crowd, eliciting flinches and whimpers in its wake. "I'm done," he says. "I'm done being quiet, and I'm done being nice. I'm sick and tired of everyone in this town looking at me and saying how damn lucky I am to live in my fancy fucking mansion and have everyone's favorite buisness man for a father. What kind of father alienates his son, _beats_ him for- for being different? For something that's not even his fault, not ANYBODY's fault?!" He's breathing heavily now. His whole body shakes with rage, and his eyes glare like a starving predator. When Leif tries again, to call out his name, he whips around and screeches, "I told you to shut up, FAGGOT!" He doesn't even blink as Leif falls back, trying desperately to stifle his sobs, and his carelessness is terrifying.

It takes more effort than Bragi would be proud admitting for him to break through the paralyzing fear and pull Leif to him. The boy struggles weakly, shifting and squirming until he stops with his back pressed to Bragi's chest. He's still a good head shorter, the younger reflects, distractedly. How inane. Is he going into hysterics? In his enfolding grip, Leif shakes with silent tears, attention locked on his pale friend and the gun in his fragile hands.

Haven isn't finished speaking, but the words simply don't make sense to Bragi's numbed mind. The sweat and desperation on his face, the way the veins on his hands stand out intricate and purple under translucent skin, his attention keeps latching onto these small details. As if his brain doesn't want to process the words, because they reveal things he doesn't want to know. 

"Your beloved town representative and esteemed defense lawyer, Jasper Frozenpool, guilty of domestic violence and abuse! And that's not even half of it! Because when someone waves a couple of Ben Franklins and makes a request, hell, he's more than happy to throw the debate a little. And to all his clients who end up having to pay extravagant fines they can't afford, or see an innocent family member damned to years in prison, he gives his most heartfelt fucking condolences! There was just _nothing he could do_ , right?! That's his policy! Fuck the poor! To hell with the unemployed and overworked! All that he cares about his his precious fucking CASH!" He's breathing fast, heavy, and ragged, looking around the room with pupils blown wide. A line of spittle slides down his chin, and he distractedly wipes it away with a sleeve. 

The sound of sirens filters through the pause, and heads begin to turn. Whispers bloom in the corners of the room. Fear flashes across Haven's face, and for just a moment Bragi can imagine the thoughts going through his head. He could stop. He could step off, give up. But what would the repercussions be? What punishment? Would his words get drowned out in the rush of shock that such an act of terrorism could occur right here in their quiet, happy town?

Voices filter down the hall. People are beginning to stir, to look around, anticipating rescue. Haven is losing their attention. A second shot rings out, and then a third, and his face is twisted in hard determination as he bangs on the table and calls attention to himself through the dissolving attentions. He screams over the crowd, "You don't care, do you? None of you care!" and doors bang open. 

When the cops burst into the cafeteria, leveling guns of their own and bellowing directions, time seems to slow for Bragi. On the table, Haven is visibly trembling. He raises his hands, but not in surrender. "If you won't listen to me while I'm alive," he shouts brokenly, and it's a miracle his voice isn't lost to the crowd, "then maybe you'll listen when I'm dead!"

Blood pounds in Bragi's ears. In his grip, Leif has gone deathly still. For a split second that seems to last indefinitely, Haven glances back and locks eyes with him. There's a message in that gaze, but Bragi is too numb to decode it, can barely process the thought before the pale-skinned stranger with his boots on the tabletop has put the gun to his mouth and is pulling the trigger.

Then all Bragi can hear is Leif, screaming the name of the boy he was so desperately in love with, again and again, until everything else drowns him out.

\- - -

He doesn't remember much of anything after that. He doesn't remember what followed, or how they got outside. The only thing he knows is that he refused to let Leif go. Leif, whose violent trembling vibrated through his whole body and shook them both where they stood.

He knows there were police, and he remembers sticking possessively to Leif's side, fending off questions. At some point there were paramedics, too, but he fought off their attentions with a stubborn aggressiveness he never even knew he was capable of. Finally they backed off, but not before they managed to get Bragi to accept a couple shock blankets. After that it's a fog of voices and bodies churning around the clear, crisp memory of sitting with Leif pressed against his chest and the blankets wrapped around them both. 

Even Sasha can't make him leave, when she arrives and asks them what happened, sick with worry and fed just fragments of the story. He just shakes his head and curls around Leif, who has yet to lift his head. He only lets go when Leif's family arrives, a powerfully concerned sister striding towards them through the still-bustling bodies, parting the crowd without a word and tailed by a mother and father who look terrified for their child's possible fate.

Alwyn calls her brother's name, he remembers, and Leif looks up immediately. When he sees her, he pulls away from Bragi, leaving a cold emptiness in the space he had been, and embraces the young woman without hesitation, only to burst into ugly, broken sobs. It hurts Bragi a little. Not just because he seems to take a place on the trust ladder below Alwyn, despite everything. She's family, and he has no right to feel as though he's been cast aside for being worthless. (Jealous.) But because this means to him that his presence wasn't enough. That he couldn't be the solid pillar of safety that his fear friend needed. And that... that feels like a failure. 

They both get bundled home eventually, taken in separate directions by guardians that fuss and fumble and fail to fix anything. Bragi doesn't even get to say goodbye before Leif is hurried away from him. He wants to believe it'll be okay, but it's not okay, and nothing will really ever be okay. So he worries instead.

He worries, for Leif, because its easier than dwelling on the fact that someone he considered a friend just shot himself through the head, and he hadn't even noticed anything was wrong. He might have prevented it, talked Haven down before it came to that, but he had been so wrapped up in the way Leif's casual touches made him feel. He could have done something, anything, thrown himself at the arm holding the gun. He was stronger than Haven, it wouldn't have been hard. And wouldn't he have been a hero? Wouldn't Leif love him all the more for his bravery?

He hates that these are the kinds of thoughts going through his head. He hates thinking about what might have been. He hates beating himself up over what happened, just as much as he hates the way his mind keeps trying to justify his actions. So it's easier to sit and wonder and worry how Leif is going to handle it all. He's not selfless. It's just that dwelling on his own thoughts makes him angry. (And maybe, if he ignores it long enough, it will be like be wasn't effected by this whole ordeal at all.)

Sasha never does press him for details. He's grateful for that.

\- - -

The days (weeks?) that follow all seem to run together, like a drop of water rolling through ink, blurring everything behind it. It's hectic. Police officers and private investigators and journalists and TV stations all want to know what happened. They camp outside on the street and hold up traffic for the whole block. He can hear them. Outside his closed and curtained window, when he lays on his bed, the ceaseless tide of voices and floodlights. He doesn't know how long it lasts. He doesn't care. His whole body and being is in trance, fixated on his last memory of Leif, orbiting it, waiting.

And then it's quiet. Maybe Sasha finally forced them out. Maybe they all gave up. He doesn't know. He just looks out his window one night, and the street is dark. He blinks. He goes back to bed.

Sasha tries to get him to eat, but he's not hungry. He's not thirsty either. His body seems to have shut down, turning itself inwards to protect against the horror of the outside world. He sleeps. He reads. He leaves the television on kids channels, muted. He eats when he is ordered to, and uses the bathroom when he needs to. He sleeps again. He waits. 

Two weeks pass from the day of the 'shooting', as the news calls it. School is cancelled. The town representative has gone to court, under the labels of several different crimes, from things regarding gun laws to much more obscure, political details. An unexpected thaw hits, and the ground turns from snow to mud. Sasha worries. Bragi doesn't know any of this. 

He sleeps.

The electric clock on the dresser would be displaying the glowing numbers '2:21 AM', if the plug hadn't been ripped from the socket many days ago. Bragi wakes from fitful dreams of burning homes and executions to a loud clack, and starts upright, chest heaving, the scent of charred blood still in his nose. The sound comes again. It's not really as loud as it had seemed in his dream. He slides out of bed treading light on the cold wood floor, and opens the curtains.

On the sidewalk below, Leif shifts, nervously tossing a splinter of asphalt in his hand, half his face buried in a ragged blue-striped scarf. He looks like an awkward reflection of the kinds of boyfriends Bragi has seen on his grainy old TV. The ones that sneak out in the middle of the night, back in the day when curfew was at nine, tossing pebbles at their lovers' windows and calling for Rapunzel to let down her hair. It's a shabby echo of those sweet old stereotypes, unintentional and poorly executed. For one, Leif looks like he's freezing. 

He opens the window. There's a heavy moment of silence, and then he moves out of the way. Bracing his feet on the rough bricks, Leif jumps and pulls himself up to crouch in the sill. Now that he's closer, Bragi can see the water droplets in his hair and on his clothes, the damp fringe of his jeans, the dirty and ragged shoestrings, dangling untied and ignored. It's so, so hard not to touch, but somehow Bragi knows that to do so would be crossing a line. Instead he moves to close the window again, and Leif hops off to make room.

The silence is deafening. 

Bragi is the one to break the silence. Taking the easy route, pretending like nothing is wrong, like this is just like any other casual visit. "You can just toss your shoes into the corner, if you want to take them off." He keeps his voice low, but doesn't bother to whisper. Sasha sleeps on the third floor, and the chances of her hearing (should she wake in the first place) are slim to none. "Did you walk?" 

In answer, Leif stays rooted in the middle of the rug, clutching his elbows. His back is turned, and he looks frail. To Bragi, much frailer than he ever saw his friend as being. He approaches, slow, and brushes a hand along the red-raw knuckles of an exposed hand. When the action spurs no abhorrent reaction, he gently moves to unwrap the scarf from his companion's neck. When it drops to the floor, Leif sighs. 

He doesn't protest as Bragi strips him of his coat and shoes as well, seating him on the edge of the bed and leaving everything discarded by the door. He doesn't look up either. He keeps his gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, even when he shivers and Bragi pulls a blanket up over his shoulders, sits down next to him. The bedsprings creak softly. Leif doesn't speak. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time, because the air is like a wall between them and they're both afraid to break through, it's too hard, someone might get hurt. 

It takes an obvious amount of effort for Leif to speak, and when he does, his voice cracks on the jarring echoes of the cacophonous inhale that proceeds it. He stops, and starts again. "I was asked-" the words sound staged, as if he's reading off a script in his mind, pausing in all the wrong places. "I was asked a lot of questions. They wanted to know how close I was to H-Haven, and if I knew anything about what happened. I couldn't tell them a single thing." Bragi can almost feel the tears in sympathy. The way they must be stinging his eyes, blurring the ground and making it hard to breathe as he struggles to finish what he began. 

"I didn't know. I never knew. They wouldn't leave me alone, they said all these things, about official stuff, but I didn't understand it and they just kept asking questions. The news people, they staked my house for three days, I couldn't go outside. Cyrus finally shouted and got them to leave, but-..." And here Bragi would laugh, if the situation had been different. The image of the oldest Carrahaghn child furiously running off a pack of startled press workers, then denying it had been anything less than a self-serving action, and certainly not done out of brotherly love. "...The police officers, the lawyers, the, the private investigators..."

He trails off, leaving the rest to imagination. Bragi is at a loss. What is the proper reaction to this sort of emotional output? He's dealt with situations similar, but then, none of them had ever involved the unexpected death of a close friend. He winds up doing nothing at all. Maybe it's better this way. What comfort can he really give, anyway? It's not as if he knows Leif well enough to know what would made him feel better, however long he spends wishing it otherwise.

After a while of nothing, Bragi gives in and inches his hand across. His fingers brush across the top of Leif's, quick, jolting. For a second he hesitates, nearly losing his nerve, but instead winds up laying his palm over that much smaller hand and slotting their fingers together. Leif slumps, as though he had only barely been holding himself upright. Bragi figures this is as good a time as any to speak.

He starts off slow and awkward, not quite sure where he's going but determined to offer what reassurance he can. "I'm sorry," he begins, and then wishes he could take it back. What is he sorry for? Is he claiming it's his own fault? That's no comfort to anyone. "I'm... I miss him too. I know it hurts." He pauses again - is he being too self-oriented? - and then pushes on. "It'll get better though. It will still hurt, it's always going to hurt, when someone you love is gone. That's just how it is. But-"

He thinks the words are reasonable, and pretty wise, given the pressure he's under right now. Leif seems to think otherwise. As Bragi speaks, he sits very still, his forehead creasing deeply, as though he's fighting something. Midway through, he seems to lose control over whatever he was holding back, and spins to face the other boy. "He's not just 'gone', Bragi!" Angry, he spits out, "He's dead!"

It's startling. This is the first time Bragi has seen him display any strong emotion since he appeared outside the window. "I know," is all he can say, and he knows it's weak. 

Leif ignores the statement, or perhaps didn't hear. "He's dead. He's dead and he's he's not coming back and I-" he breaks off as sobs spill into his rant, nearly drowning his words out. Between gulping breaths and dripping eyes he wails, "I loved him. I loved him so much. I never said anything- I was scared-... But I couldn't... I can't help it. And now I can't even tell 'im!" He pounds on Bragi's shoulders, bruising, struggling, but even in the midst of his hysterics, Bragi won't let him go.

"I'm sorry." A murmur, low and pained. "I'm so sorry." It hurts him inside too. It aches like a punch to the gut and it burns like coals in his throat but for every second he spends holding back tears of his own, he knows Leif is tearing himself apart.

The weak fists hitting him don't cease, a barrage of desperate pummeling. "You! You didn't let me do anything! You should have let me go!" Knuckles catch his collarbone and he flinches, but doesn't let go of the boy in his lap. Leif chokes. "I hate you! It's your fault!" And even though he knows it's just a desperate accusation, a grief-stricken child grasping at straws and looking to pin the blame on someone, it hurts to hear. In this moment he could almost believe it, too. That his existence was the catalyst that brought about the end. That it might have been better for everyone if he had never met Leif.

But-

Hands on his chest are shoving him away now. The futile assault has been abandoned. Leif looks at him with puffy eyes and a splotched-red face with tears dripping from his eyes and nose and it's not attractive, not in the slightest, but Bragi does not care. He grips tight to the weeping boy's wrists and he presses in, past all the tears and drool and snot, and kisses him. 

It's a little gross. It's salty, and drops are falling on his cheeks from Leif's heavy-blinking eyelashes. There's a moment where he seems to have frozen time. Then Leif makes a keening noise, broken and agonized in the back of his throat, and clings with crumbling strength. It's not romantic. It's not sweet. It's messy and raw and wet, and Bragi has to pull away once so he can gently wipe their noses with the back of his sleeve. It's rushed. It's completely instinctual, two people sharing pain in only slightly different ways, looking for solidity and comfort. It's not great. Teeth get in the way. It hurts. 

Bragi doesn't care at all. 

Fingers tug at his shirt, seeking purchase, crawling up to fall across his shoulders. His mouth feels bruised and swollen, his teeth ache, his tongue burns, and it's absolutely world-stopping. Like dying stars they supernova, giving it all up in one last beautiful rush. And in this tiny corner of the world, everything seems to pause, turning to watch the spectacle, as two more children on a rough and rugged road turn to each other for something, anything, to make them forget the ache in their hearts.

Bragi is nowhere near experienced, but then, neither is Leif. It doesn't matter anyway. It's a means to an end, not something to savor. He still does anyway, cradles the boy's face in his hands and guides him, bringing them round into something less frenzied, but no less desperate. He kisses everything he can reach. Cheeks, lips, nose, chin, lips again, misses. Runs his fingers through soft brown hair that's getting a little too long. Presses fearsomely protective kisses to Leif's neck, and hears him _whine_. It's nothing less than heartbreaking. He never wants to stop.

"I love you," he whispers, reverent. "From the first time I met you. Even before." He traces fingers across hot skin, admiring, drinking it in. Every touch is a new experience, but it feels like something burned into his body's memory. Like a decades-old map he is just remembering how to read. "You understand, don't you?" And his question is desperate, an anxious child searching for confirmation of his beliefs. "As if... This isn't the first time. Like I've known you in another life." Leif doesn't answer. He just closes his eyes and wraps his arms tighter around Bragi's neck, holding onto the last solid anchor in this tide of change.

In his emboldened desire to feel every part of Lief's skin, to trace out the details of his body until he forgets there was ever a reason to cry in the first place, Bragi doesn't quite register what he's doing until he has Leif lying beneath him. Red-faced, puffy-eyed, with his shirt up around his armpits and his jeans slung halfway off his hips. A breathing space's worth of pause lets the situation sink in, and for a split second Bragi feels the pull of trepidation. What he's doing, is this wrong? They're close, but they're not close enough to be doing things like this. Is it rape? He never asked what Leif wanted. But then Leif blinks, setting a tear loose to track back towards his ear, and Bragi doesn't _care_. He wants to banish those tears, he wants to make Leif forget, to make him feel safe and loved and precious, and for that he would do absolutely anything. 

The bed doesn't creak, it's too well made, but the whisper of the sheets sliding across one another sounds through the room like a muted percussive to Leif's stifled hiccups as Bragi wraps himself around that much smaller body. With their legs tangled and a hand on the bare skin of Leif's lower back, it makes a crude mimicry of the last time he held Leif while he cried. And he wonders, almost, would if he could think of anything else, what would have happened if things had gone back then they way they're going now. What if he had kissed Leif? What if he had held him, in that cold, sterile room, surrounded by impersonal belongings? Would anything have changed? The butterfly, innocently flapping its wings, changing the course of history?

But it doesn't matter. Now is now, and what happened cannot be undone. There is only the present, this shaking, stunning hurricane that tries to blot out everything else. Knocking down homes as it tries to wipe away painfully nostalgic landmarks. He holds Leif, now, as he shakes and shudders and weeps silent tears, pouring out everything that held him back into this small space of haven that Bragi created between them.

Indeterminate seconds string out behind this earthshaking event, in the darkness of the room. Neither of them speak a word. There's nothing to say, no words that could possibly encompass the enormity of the things they both need to say. So they lay there, and Bragi is quietly grateful that he keeps a box of tissues on his nightstand because he refuses to move more than an arm, rather than dislodge the boy he's tangled up with. 

He thinks that maybe Leif sleeps. It's impossible to tell. His breathing never changes from the calculated inhale and exhale of a body working on autopilot, and he never moves. And the way he's tucked into Bragi's chest, there's no way to see if his eyes are open or closed. They lay there. It could be minutes, it could be hours. The clock counts the seconds out of view, Schrodinger's timekeeper, proving it both night and day at the same time. It doesn't matter. 

He thought Leif might have been sleeping, but then he speaks. His voice sounds distant, like someone in a trance. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, Bragi. What should I do now?" A broken doll, crying the same line again and again. It's sad, and frightening. "What should I do?" 

There are no reassuring words left. They've been said, run ragged by repetition, stripped of any comfort they might have once given. So Bragi does what he has always done best; he speaks what he knows. "You'll miss him, I guess. Just like the rest of us. And maybe one day, if we're lucky, it won't hurt quite as much." 

"There's nothing I can do?" The faint dampness of tears seeps through Bragi's shirt again, but he can't find it in him to really mind. "Am I useless? Everything I tried to do, to help-... Was that a waste? Wasn't I important?!"

There are no sobs this time. Just breathing gone ragged, and fingers clutching at him, making him wish there was a way to bring Leif closer, physically closer to his heart than he has managed so far. He holds Leif, and he murmurs with the same distant tone, belying a mind to worn out to try any more.

"Maybe you weren't the most important person in the world," he says, "but you were the most important person to us, Leif. You did so much good. You kept everyone sane."

"I did a lot of bad things too, though." Leif's voice is whispery and hoarse for crying. It makes Bragi's chest hurt.

"I think we all did."

They lay in silence for a long time, holding onto each other, seeking solidity in physical contact. Leif's breath continues to catch, and then, slowly, steadies back into a slow warmth. When he speaks, it sends hot chills across Bragi's skin. "D'you think," he wonders hesitantly, "that if we can all live different lives, then there can be different universes?" He's still thinking, Bragi can tell, so he lets him continue. "D'you think... Do you think that, somewhere, there's a universe where we all get to be happy? Nobody dies too soon and nobody has to go through all the bad things. They're just... happy?" He shifts, and in the filtered light, Bragi can see him gazing up with a desperate, pained expression. 

The world they're living in is harsh and unfair, he thinks, and he's hardly seen the worst of it. He's watched the boy he loves suffer with smiles through more internal pain than he could ever dream of. And maybe he's happy now, with Leif finally in his arms, but he knows that there are some memories that never really fade, some scars that never quite heal, and if imagining a universe devoid of pain makes his partner feel better, then he'll lie about what he thinks to make it reality.

So he leans over and he kisses Leif.

"I'm sure of it."


End file.
